


sixteen and

by Pseudologia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bisexual Dean, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Poetry, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 03:37:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pseudologia/pseuds/Pseudologia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A poem for the Dean Winchester who lived at Sonny's Home for Boys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sixteen and

you are sixteen  
sixteen and the world already tastes like ash,  
like the salt you keep in vials by your bed  
weighing down on your tongue, scraping away  
at your senses until everything is tasteless.  
you lose the money because it's hard—  
because it fucking _sucks_ to be trusted,  
when trusting you never did right by anybody—  
and you've been useless since you were five.

 

you are sixteen and you steal  
and it's not the first time but you saw, once, in a movie  
the way a good-looking guy could talk his way out of anything:  
and you give it a try because you don't have a record, and  
your father's made it clear that he sees no difference  
between your home and a grave and  
nobody gives you a choice,  
because it's not convenient for them.  
at least for now, you live unburied.

 

you are sixteen and asylum  
means something different than  
what they taught in the history books and  
delinquency is sweeter than salt ever was.  
you go to school (like a normal kid)  
you do your chores (like a normal kid)  
you get in trouble (like a normal goddamn kid),  
and you smile because  
your dad would fucking hate it.

 

you are sixteen and you should  
be bigger by now, you know it—  
your little brother is already up to your shoulders  
and your dad could never have been this small.  
when you get on the scale that first day and  
they put you in weight class 135,  
a few kids snicker and you taste salt.  
you work, building and unraveling  
strategies like carborators and engines;  
training like the salt in your sweat will keep  
the monsters at bay.

 

you are sixteen and you win  
and it looks like gold and  
tastes like cinnamon apple pie,  
and nobody comments on your weight class  
and nothing keeps you out of the  
Hall of Fame,  
not even your bright green eyes or  
how you're built just like your mother  
(dad would never let you forget).

 

you are sixteen and later, in the locker room  
you throw your arms around another boy and you kiss him  
because his hair is so messy and  
your smile is so wide and  
he lets you laugh it off and  
he lets you pretend it never happened  
every time you see him.

 

you are sixteen and she asks  
if this is the first time you've kissed a girl.  
you stutter because you can't tell her  
she is asking the wrong question.  
later, you realize that she never asked  
that first time  
if she could kiss you at all, but  
it only seems fair  
when you never asked the smiling boy.  
even before, when men would ask,  
even when they wanted to pay you  
you always  
had to say no.  
it seems like payback and you don't mind.

 

you are sixteen and her laugh  
seems too bright for the dingy sitting room  
and you can tell when she teaches you guitar  
that her hands were destined for travel—  
and she hears music everywhere  
and thinking of her feels like warmth  
and being with her feels like home,  
but those are two words you haven't  
had the heart to say out loud in  
thirteen years.

 

you are sixteen and you carve  
the sigils into your bedpost and keep  
the salt near you at all times and on the Bad days you try  
not to dip your own knife collection into  
your forearm's pale skin.  
it's hard not to, when the wood of the posts  
gives so easily and you know that you could, too:  
you've felt yourself break under the grips  
of nightmares and men and your own father  
and you just want to see if you have the heart  
to engineer your own undoing.

 

you are sixteen and you don't.

 

you are sixteen and the hope  
in your chest solidifies to dread and  
the tie around your neck feels like a noose,  
and he couldn't even come to the door.  
there is a bed that you've marked and  
tape with your name on it and someone  
who doesn't know yet to count on you  
for disappointment.  
you look out the window and your brother  
doesn't even know where you've been and  
you wonder how he slept without your  
stories to keep away the nightmares and  
your words to keep away the fire.  
your dad has a bottle of Jack in the glove compartment and  
your brother is only twelve and  
you go

 

because  
you are sixteen.


End file.
